NORMAN MAILER IS DEAD. And we are all the poorer for it. He brawled. He made brash statements -- sometimes laughably so. He championed causes both worthy and foolish. He lived hard, drank hard, and loved hard. He left behind broken marriages and children, and finally mellowed in his twilight years to a kind of literary elder statesman.If you are a writer, you cannot ignore Mailer. He is some sort of essential template. The man lurched through life -- intellect and ego fighting one another. He turned a phrase that could strip paint. If you read The Naked and the Dead or The Executioner's Song, you simply cannot deny the power of his gift -- and the sometimes astonishing way he wielded it.
Mailer was a writer and he lived. He pronounced, declaimed, lectured, hectored, forgave, accused, and remembered. He moved thinking along, sparked discourse and disgust and outrage. Who among us would not like to have that said about them when they're gone? Who dared more to make sense of the great struggle of this life?
I have a fear that stalks me sometimes at night. I fear that the age when a literary life, the age where thinking and thought and discourse was popular -- I fear that this has eluded us, finally. The days where Kurt Vonnegut or Mailer might appear as a guest on a talk show belong to a different time. A time when rigor and thought engaged people across the sphere. Whether your cultural touchstone was high, or low or somewhere in between, lions like Mailer demanded your attention. They demanded to be heard, considered, dealt with.
What we have now is the pale sheen of celebrity. Causism. Activism of a type, yes. But it's all so much product, isn't it? I fear we're slipping past the point where we can have any conversation, because we all retreat to sources that tell us what we want to hear. No one takes us by the head, points us in a direction and commands -- shames us to look.
We are losing our provacateurs. And I fear for what comes next.
I encourage you to read the full obituary of Mailer in the New York Times, by Charles McGrath. (No relation, and while we're at it, that photo above was taken by Tyler Hicks.) Then, when you're done, go out and say something bold and stupid and real to someone. Speak a truth that you know and that no one will tell.
Norman Mailer, the combative, controversial and often outspoken novelist who loomed over American letters longer and larger than any writer of his generation, died today in Manhattan. He was 84.
Mr. Mailer burst on the scene in 1948 with “The Naked and the Dead,” a partly autobiographical novel about World War II, and for the next six decades he was rarely far from the center stage. He published more than 30 books, including novels, biographies and works of nonfiction, and twice won the Pulitzer Prize: for “The Armies of the Night” (1968), which also won the National Book Award, and “The Executioner’s Song” (1979).
He also wrote, directed, and acted in several low-budget movies, helped found The Village Voice and for many years was a regular guest on television talk shows, where he could reliably be counted on to make oracular pronouncements and deliver provocative opinions, sometimes coherently and sometimes not.
It's a little early, but tonight, tonight I'll raise a whiskey to you, sir. Thanks for Executioner's Song and Harlot's Ghost and The Naked and the Dead. Thanks for it all.
“It’s such an odd notion, particularly in this technological society, of whether your life is justified by being a novelist. And the nice thing about getting older is that I no longer worry about that. I’ve come to the simple recognition that would have saved me much woe 30 or 40 or 50 years ago — that one’s eventual reputation has very little to do with one’s talent. History determines it, not the order of your words.”The title of this post comes from one of my favorite Mailer quotes; one that I think sums up his attitude -- and the measure of the loss of him, quite well:
Shaking his head, he added: “In two years I will have been a published novelist for 60 years. That’s not true for very many of us.” And he recalled something he had said at the National Book Award ceremony in 2005, when he was given a lifetime achievement award: that he felt like an old coachmaker who looks with horror at the turn of the 20th century, watching automobiles roar by with their fumes.
“I think the novel is on the way out,” he said. “I also believe, because it’s natural to take one’s own occupation more seriously than others, that the world may be the less for that.”
"With the pride of the artist, you must blow against the walls of every power that exists the small trumpet of your defiance."
Rest in Peace.





